


Never Enough

by Pimento



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drunk John, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, PWP without Porn, Sweet, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 19:25:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5345801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pimento/pseuds/Pimento
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to a series of firsts challenges from LiveJournal in 2008, I wrote these way before the flashbacks in the later series.<br/>No warnings necessary unless you're allergic to sentiment, in which case bring a bucket.  I might recycle these as flashbacks at some point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Birthday

Dean lay on the couch in front of TV. It was late and Dad wasn’t home. Dean had fed himself on what he could find in the refrigerator and a packet of M and M’s. He had the lights off, and the weird flickering shadows of the black and white late night film, reflected off the surfaces in the room. 

The only other light source was a candle he had stolen that morning from the church on the corner. It was stuffed into a week old stale muffin, that hungry as he was, Dean would not eat. He leant across to blow it out. “Make a wish, Sammy,” he whispered, leaning forward to kiss the forehead of the infant in his arms. Sammy slurped noisily at the beaker of milk, eyes closed, chubby arms and legs jerking slightly in reflex as he drifted to sleep. 

Dean froze as he heard the scratching at the door, followed by the rasp of the key engaging in the lock as John drunkenly fumbled his way into the apartment. He feigned sleep, it was a hell of a lot easier and five year old Dean was a fast learner. He heard his father approach, and the dip of the couch as he sat down. A soft hand stroked his fringe away from his forehead, then the fingers stilled mid stroke. 

John made a strange noise in his throat, and Dean gripped Sammy tighter, expecting John to try and lift him away. He opened his eyes when nothing happened. John was slumped forward his head in his hands. Sensing that Dean was watching him he looked back at his eldest son. “You hungry son?” the gravely voice sounded strained. Dean nodded cautiously. “Go put your brother in his crib and wash yourself up. I’ll go get us some dinner.” 

Dean wriggled out from under his baby brother, scooping him up and moved towards the room they shared. John stood up and stared sadly at the single candle in the muffin, remorse filling his heart, he took it to the kitchen. 

He had been so caught up in his six month old grief and the need to find what had killed his wife, so determined to drown his sorrows on the half year anniversary of Mary’s death, that he had forgotten what else today was. But not Dean, not his plucky, resourceful little boy. He allowed himself one sob, before he wiped his big hands across his unshaven face. 

Dean appeared in the doorway, a look of wary optimism on his young face. John turned on the kitchen light. There was precious little to eat, but there was milk for Sammy and a dozen eggs that a neighbour had given to Dean. Clearing his throat, John sighed and said, “lay the table, Dean and then I’ll teach you how to make an omelette.”


	2. First Lies

Dean stared at Sammy, lying lazily in the grass under the shade of a tree reading a comic, at least the cover was a comic, in the middle were the hand written notes that Caleb had given to Dean about incubus and other slightly more ‘risque’ demons. 

“Sammy,” Dean said, slamming the boot of his car. The edge to his voice should have given Sam a clue, but he flicked the ‘comic’ into his school bag, jumped up from the grass and ran across to the car with a look of such angelic innocence on his 13 year old face, that Dean chuckled, careful not to let him hear. 

Sam stood before him, clutching his bag to his waist. “Reading something good, Sammy?” Dean asked, hiding his grin. 

Sam swallowed, but remained wide-eyed. “It’s just a comic book, some guys at school gave me. It’s about …” the lie was tripping too easily, from his young mouth. 

Dean cuffed him across the head, affectionately. “Don’t lie to me you little pervert, I can tell, remember. We never lie to each other, OK. Lying gets us killed. Now give me my notes back before I go tell Dad, what you’ve been up to.” 

Sam fumbled in his bag, pulling the notes from the middle of the comic, muttering an apology. Dean pretended not to notice the bulge in Sam’s adolescent pants as the bag slipped. He ruffled the youngster’s hair as he took back his notes. We are so fucked up, he thought, watching as Sam walked gingerly away. Fight drills, weapons training, making up cover stories for one another, and instead of a secret porno stash under his bed like any normal thirteen year old boy, Sam was getting his kicks reading about sexual demons. 

Suddenly, for the first time in his life, Dean missed normality, not for himself but for Sam. Sweet, precious little Sammy, the need to look after him indelibly seared on his psyche from that first terrifying moment when he had run from the house with a six month old Sam in his arms. 

“Dean, you ready?” John, focussed on the task at hand as always, not even noticing the reflective look in his eldest’s eyes. “Have you found those notes?” 

“Yes, sir” Dean waved them. John took the drivers seat and Dean climbed in beside him. Looking back and catching sight of Sam, watching quietly from his bedroom window. Dean smiled secretly to himself, knowing full well what Sam would be doing as soon as they were gone.


	3. The Dream

The sunlight blinded his eyes, shining hexagons of light flickering through the leaves in the trees as he concentrated on the arc of the ball through the air. He laughed and ran after it, screaming as he was scooped up and swung into the sky. The sensation of flying and falling, twirling his stomach.

Mary put down the tray of lemonade, smiling at them playing in the morning sunshine. John looked up, as he dropped Dean to the ground, letting him scoot after the ball.  
Dean ran up to his parents, the sweet sharp lemonade ran over his tongue and he choked slightly on it in his eagerness. His mom patted his back and stroked his hair, as he nestled against her swollen stomach, listening for sounds of baby Sammy.

They sat together, all three, Dean sandwiched in the middle, the soft soapy smell of his mother, mingling with the musky oily scent of Dad. He looked down at the large grease stained hands, tossing the ball, idly. “More?” John said, eyes crinkling at his young son. Dean ran out across the grass, feeling the blades whipping softly against his legs.

He woke with a start.


	4. Our Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam wants to do some normal things, and for the first time, Dean (the perfect son) and John (the less than perfect father) fight over what's best for Sam. 
> 
> Another bit of sickly sweet angst.

He thought about the look on Dean’s face as he had left, and their last conversation. “We never lie to each other, OK. Lying gets us killed.” Well Dean could go to hell, he was a liar, he’d promised he would be back in time for the play and where was he? No phone call, nothing. 

Sam looked up as the drama teacher appeared at the door of the school gym, calling him in for costume. He stood up and dusted himself down.

 

The audience was partisan, of course, full of parents, faculty and co-students, but Mrs Hardinger listened to applause with a sense of triumph. The performance had been flawless. At first she had been worried, Sam Winchester had seemed distracted, but once he was on stage he had come alive. She could see him bowing and taking the applause, elated and smiling at his friends, loving every minute. She scanned the auditorium wondering if his family were here. 

He was a strange boy, bright but quiet. Always in a hurry to go home, she had been surprised to see his name on the list for drama club, and so pleased to see him open and blossom. The audition piece she had chosen was her favourite scene from Our Town, where George Gibbs falls on his knees beside his wife, Emily’s grave. Sam had taken her breath away. He was a little geeky for the part, and it had caused some consternation amongst the other students, when she cast him but now she knew she had been right. 

The principal was on his feet applauding.

The students returned for a final encore before they left the makeshift stage and headed for the changing rooms that were doubling as dressing rooms. She made a beeline for Sam. A man she had never seen before walked across her path, and headed in his direction. She would never forget the look on the boys face, the brilliant smile froze in place and then disappeared, as the man approached him. He grabbed Sam by the elbow and began to speak to him in a low rumbling voice, the other students looked anxiously at one another.

She moved to intercept them, and held out her hand. “You must be Mr Winchester,” she said, turning on her most charming smile. “My name is Mrs Hardinger. You must be so proud of Sam. It was a wonderful performance.”

The man stared at the offered hand, before shaking it with some reluctance. Sam looked embarrassed, eyes shifting away refusing to look at her. “We have family business to attend to,” the voice was cold and disinterested. “Sam is needed at home. If you’ll excuse us.”

Mrs Hardinger watched with some distress as the boy was marched away. 

 

Sam woke with the first rumble of thunder overhead. Dean was not in the other bed. He crept downstairs, a thin shaft of light illuminated the gloom. A bright column of movement in the pitch dark. He moved slightly to give himself a better view through the crack in the kitchen door. He could hear his Dad’s voice as he berated Dean for allowing Sam to go off ‘acting’ when he should have been doing drills. “I thought I made myself plain when he had that dumb idea about playing soccer.”

“I was just encouraging him to have a little fun,” Dean sounded angry. “He’s just a kid, not some damn marine.”

Sam saw part of the arc as his father’s arm swung and winced as he heard the impact. “Don’t give me attitude, Dean. Sam is not a normal boy, we are not a normal family. We don’t have time for distractions, god damn it. This stops, it stops now, do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean’s voice was muffled.

Sam swallowed hard trying not to cry, partly from frustration and partly from despair. He hated this, hated that Dean was taking the blame for something he had done. Another flash outside, was quickly followed with another rumble of thunder, indicating that the storm was much closer. He slunk back to the bedroom, the front door slammed and sitting up he watched John climb into his truck and drive off.

He jumped from the bed and ran downstairs. Dean was stood by the sink and turned his head away as he heard Sam approach. “Go to bed, Sammy.”

“No. Not until you turn around.” Dean sighed and his shoulders slumped. He turned slowly, the side of his face was already swelling and an angry cut marked the otherwise handsome features. 

Sam took the cloth from Dean’s hand and pushed it against the cut, causing Dean to flinch away, snatching it back. “Now go to bed, Sammy. I’m fine, just a leftover from the spirit we banished today."

“Bull, it was Dad. I heard the argument. I heard him hit you. Why didn’t you tell him I begged you to let me do that play? Why did you let him do that to you?” The tears that had threatened to flow, began. He wiped them away angrily. 

“Dad is doing his best. He’s trying to protect us both and make sure we can defend ourselves when we need to."

"Stop defending him. He has no right to hit you..."

"He has every right to do what he needs to do for this family, Sam. He has to maintain discipline.” Dean’s face softened as he stroked Sam’s cheek. “Anyway, it was worth it, Sam. You were good.”

Sam looked up, momentarily baffled. “You were there?” 

Dean nodded, a tiny white lie wouldn’t hurt. “Now go to bed. We have a lot of drills to catch up on.”

 

He shifted in his sleep, whimpering softly and Dean climbed out of bed and soothed him gently, wishing he could gift his memories to him. Sam’s dreams were full of horror, his earliest memories were full of pain and loss, he was angry, always so angry. He had never known the Dad that Dean knew, the man full of love and fun, would never remember the softness of his mothers touch or her tomato rice soup when he had a flu. He had done all he could to try and make it up, but it was never enough. Would never be enough. 

He kissed Sam, tenderly on the forehead, and smiled as the eyes flicked open, still full of sleep. The nightmare drifting away, he felt Sam shift, lifting the covers and pulling Dean into the narrow bunk. He gazed down fondly as doe like hazel eyes unfocussed and closed again, Sam snuggling into his older brother, seeking warmth and comfort. This peaceful sleep would last for a few hours, but the haunted look would return. He would never be enough and he knew it.


End file.
